“I have long needed to speak with you. To ask you to help us,” the King said, and Bea's eyes snapped back into focus. “Perhaps I have waited too long.”
His gaze ran over her, and Bea saw her illness reflected in his eyes. She saw pity swell there, and hated him for it.
“Why would you need to speak with me?” Bea demanded. “You're some kind of sparkly-white supernatural creature. What can I possibly do for you that you can't do for yourself?”
“We have made an error. I have made a terrible error, and I fear that my people,” he stretched a hand toward Bea’s angel, “will pay the price. There is an object that can do us great harm. It pulls the life force out of us and bestows it on another. There are people who are seeking that object, planning to make themselves powerful. And to destroy us.”
Bea glanced over at her angel. Ten minutes ago, it would have been hard for her to imagine that anything could be a threat to him. But she could see the fear in his eyes, could see from the expression on his face that this stranger spoke the truth.
“And what does that have to do with me?” Bea asked, her eyes narrowing.
“I wasn’t sure, when I first glimpsed you in my dreams, why your fate was intertwined with my people. Still, I told Malachai where to find you the night that he pulled you from the waves.”
Bea looked at her angel, who stood as though defeated, his head bowed low against his chest. Her hand still rested on his arm, steadying him, ready to pull him back to his feet if he started to crumble again.
“Is that true?” she whispered, and he nodded, not looking up. Bea turned back toward the King.
“So, what are you saying? That you sent him to get me?”
“I did not send him. I only told him of you, and of what I had seen. I said that, if he went to you, he would find a love he could not keep. He did not intend to rescue you. He told me it would be cruel. He went, I think, only to be close. To see you. But, in the end, his heart did not give him a choice.”
“Wait a minute.” Bea was holding her free hand up in front of her, fending off his words. “He told you? What do you mean he told you?” There was a moment of silence. For the first time since he had entered, the King looked uncertain. Bea's voice was small. “He can speak?” She spun to look at her angel. “You can speak?”
Slowly, warily, her angel nodded.
“If you can speak, why won't you speak to me?”
It was the King who answered. “Surely, you have guessed the truth by now, Beatrice. You must know.”
Bea shook her head numbly, her eyes still locked on the one she loved. “No,” she whispered. “I didn't think about it. I didn't want to. I just . . .” Bea's voice grew softer, and a little hoarse. “I just took what life gave me, and didn't wonder about it. It was so much more than I had hoped to have. Such a miracle. It felt wrong to look at it too closely.”
“And now?” the King asked.
Bea closed her eyes.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Malachai can speak, child, but he does not dare to speak to you. He carries the curse of our kind. If you heard his voice, even for a moment, even a single word, your mind would be destroyed. Your will would no longer be your own. He could not keep the hurt from you, no matter how dearly he loved you.”
Bea opened her eyes and looked her angel full in the face. He lifted his head slowly, pressing his lips together as he met her gaze, as though bracing himself for a blow that was sure to come.
“And the noises that I've heard downstairs?” Though she spoke to the King, Bea did not look away from Malachai.
“Those who serve him live below.”
“Slaves?”
“Criminals,” The King’s voice hardened. “We have laws, and Malachai has always been faithful to them. The ones who serve him do so out of love, and only after their own vile acts had condemned them.”
“He didn't want me to see,” Bea whispered.
“Perhaps he did not want you to know.”
Bea took a step closer to her angel. “You were afraid I would hate you, once I knew what you are.” It was not a question.
He looked back at her steadily, not blinking, not letting any emotion show on his face. Bea lifted her hand, trailing her fingers slowly down his chin, and over his Adam's apple. Standing on tiptoe, she put her lips next to his ear.
“Every part of you is beautiful to me,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss his neck. “Always.”
A shudder ran through him as his arms jerked upward, pressing her to him. They clung to each other for a long moment, not caring that the King stood only a few feet away.
“Wait,” said Bea, a moment later. She pulled away a little, still keeping her arms wrapped around her angel's waist. “If the curse of your kind is that you can't talk to humans, then how are we even having this conversation?”
“As king, I carry a different curse. I bear the curse of prophecy, instead.”
“How is that a curse?”
“Because of what my dreams sometimes show me. And last night, I dreamed a wave of red. An endless, moonless night. Our entire people, drained of power and then hunted down until not a single one remains.”
Bea's arms tightened around her angel. Somehow, she could no longer laugh at the King's dreams.
“But that is not all I saw,” the King went on. “I dreamed of two keys, one made of silver, the other of red. The first opens the door. The second opens herself.”
“What does that mean?”
“You are the second key,” the King said, something unfathomable in his eyes.
A strange sensation washed over Bea, one that lifted her out of herself. The feeling that she had had this conversation before, that the words that were about to be spoken were known to her already, somewhere deep inside. She just couldn't quite remember.
“Speak English!” she growled at the King, but there was no real bite in her words. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“You can stop the bloodshed. You can protect the one you love, and keep a terrible power from falling into the hands of those who would misuse it.” But the words he spoke did not match the somber expression on his face.
“The rest . . .” Bea demanded. “Tell me the rest.”
The King hesitated. “There would be a price,” he said. “A heavy one. You can save his life only at the cost of your own.”
Bea closed her eyes and exhaled a long, slow breath she hadn't known she was holding. The King kept talking, his words anxious now, and hurried. “There is a goblet. It pulls the life-blood from us and gives our power to another. There is only one way to destroy it: it must be used by a human, whose body could never absorb the power that it holds. Used by a human, the power that it holds would flow through you, and then, finding nothing to latch onto—would flow back into the goblet itself. Overwhelming it, and destroying it forever.” He paused, as though waiting for Bea to say something, but she did not move, did not open her eyes. “But it would kill you, child,” the King said softly. “Slowly. And with pain.”
Bea found herself nodding, her eyes still squeezed shut, lost in her own world of gray and gold. It made a sort of sense. Formed a twisted kind of symmetry.
“Okay,” she murmured, forcing herself to pull air into her lungs, trying to steady her thoughts. “Okay.”
Suddenly fingers were clutching her arm, her angel's hands clamping painfully against her skin, pulling her toward him. Bea's eyes snapped open, and her angel was shaking his head furiously, his eyes wild.
“You must know,” the King continued, raising his voice, “that this request comes from me alone. I spoke to Malachai late last night. He did not want me to request your help. But he could not keep me from coming.”
Bea tore her eyes away from her angel's silent pleas and turned toward the King. “I understand,” she said. “I'll do it.”
The sound that exploded behind her was worse than any she could have imagined, worse than steel screaming as two cars collided, worse than a wounded ani
mal howling in the darkest part of the night. It was a moan, deep and guttural and full of anguish.
“Malachai!” the King shouted. Bea turned. Her angel’s face was flushed with red, his eyes wild. His fingers pulled at his own hair. His chest swelled, while his face contorted with misery.
“Control yourself!” the King cried out. “You will destroy her!” He strode forward, hands outstretched; but Bea got there first.
“Listen to me!” she half-demanded, half-pleaded, taking her angel's flushed face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Listen! You can't save me. We've known that ever since the first day . . . ever since you pulled me from the water, we've known where this was heading. We can hide from it all we want, we can pretend that we can't see . . .” She took his hand in hers and pressed it against her chest. “But it's here.” Her voice broke. “It is going to take me from you. I would have stayed with you, my love, forever. I would have made you my eternity. But it doesn't matter how hard I fight; it doesn't matter how strong or brave I am . . . I can't stop it.” She half-smiled, tears running down her face. “I'm not used to being weak. I don't like it. But this . . . destroying that goblet. Protecting you. That is something I can do. I can keep you safe! Don't you see? See how much easier it is for me to die for a reason than it would be for me to slowly inch along, crumbling as I go? I can do something for you that no one else can do. Isn't there a kind of poetry in that? A kind of beauty? When you did something for me that no one else in the whole wide world could have done. You healed my heart when the rest of me was so very broken. You have to let me do this. Okay? Please. I need you to understand.”
Her angel stared into her eyes, his hand clutching at hers. He closed his eyes and gave a small, sharp nod.
“I will come back for you at the end of the week,” the King said, retreating toward the door, whether to give them privacy or to escape from the misery in the air, Bea was not sure.
“No,” she said, and the King froze. She turned to look at him. “Come tomorrow,” Bea ordered. “I'm not sure how much time I have.”
The King half-bowed. “Very well,” he agreed. “I will return at first light.” Then he was gone, the red door clicking shut behind him.
As soon as they were alone, Malachai stumbled to the windows, throwing them open as though he were suffocating, sitting down hard on the edge. He sat bent over, his hands pressed over his mouth. Bea could see his shoulders convulsing, and knew he feared that the sounds of his sobs would rip her will away.
“Do you need me to leave?” she asked uncertainly, but he reached back, his hand grasping blindly until it found hers, pulling her to him. Bea sat with her arms wrapped around him, her face pressed against his arm. For a very long time, they sat, mourning together. When he finally looked up at her, Bea reached up and wiped the tears from his cheeks.
“I don't know where I'll go . . . after it happens,” she whispered fiercely. “But I know . . . I know that my love will never leave you.”
Jake
That first day had passed in a blur. Jake remembered the intake doctor reaching out and saying, “Let's take a look at this hand,” as he unwrapped the bandage. He had whistled through his teeth when he saw it. Jake thought that was unprofessional.
“When exactly did this happen?” the doctor asked, holding Jake's hand gingerly and pressing against it very lightly in one place and then another.
“Two months ago?” Jake had answered uncertainly. “No. Maybe just one month?”
“And you haven't seen a doctor, all this time?”
“Someone bandaged it up for me,” Jake answered defensively.
“I can see that.” The doctor's sarcasm wasn't even subtle.
“How bad is it?”
“Well, wiggle those fingers around for me as much as you can.”
Jake knit his eyebrows together and did his best. The doctor whistled again.
“Pretty bad, I'd say. How much does it hurt you?”
“Not at all.”
The doctor looked at him, long and hard. “Not at all, you say?”
“Nope.”
The doctor took a roll of fresh bandages out of a drawer and began to wrap Jake's arm again.
“Well, this is far and away beyond what I can handle here. I'm going to write you out the names of three different specialists that I want you to see.”
“Three?”
“That's just for starters. You've had a severe injury, and the fact that it's gone untreated so long will make dealing with it even harder.” He tsked quietly under his breath.
“And as the drugs you've got going in your system wear off, the pain is going to be a big problem too. Painkillers are usually not allowed for patients in rehab, so you'll have to talk to your counselor about different options.”
Jake nodded, not bothering to try to explain that he had no drugs in his system, and the pain would not come back, not as long as Molly was alive. Worry flared in his chest, burning him. He wished for a cigarette.
“Let's take a look at the rest of you,” the doctor said mildly. He pulled the white gown away from Jake's skin. It hadn't even occurred to Jake to think of the marks that covered his back. The wounds from Tyler’s beating had closed up, but deep injuries like that took a long time to heal. He felt the doctor freeze behind him.
“You've really been through hell, haven't you son?” he said at last.
“Yeah,” Jake admitted. “More than once.”
After that, Jake moved in a fog, a deep white fog that softened all the sounds around him, and made the edges of his vision blur. He put his duffel bag on the bed that they pointed out to him; he carried the schedule of sessions with him as he went from place to place. But his mind was always with Molly.
He knew she was alive. That, at least, he couldn't doubt. He felt the link between them, like skin pulled too tight over a wound, stretching and jerking at him somewhere deep in his chest. Would I know if she was in pain? Would I know when the danger started? he wondered as he sat in the back of the group therapy sessions. He fell into bed that first night with nothing else on his mind.
She wants me to be here, Jake reminded himself as he lay, sleepless, in the dark. This is what she asked me to do.
He liked talking with Rebecca, and she spent a lot of time with him. And, oddly, he found he liked going to the family therapy sessions. He didn't have any family with him, but no one kicked him out. He couldn't even have said what drew him to it, but he found it fascinating. The couples held hands tightly, but they didn’t look at each other. The parents who sat with their arms wrapped around the too-skinny teenager between them, faces pale with guilt and worry, fighting a last-ditch battle to save their child from a villain who had no face and lived beneath his very skin.
Here, more than anywhere else, Jake felt awake. He followed the conversations closely, watched the faces of the other patients with interest. It was like he was looking for something . . . searching for his sister in the faces around him. Jake felt lonely when he sat there, and jealous. Jealous of the other addicts, who at least had someone there to sit beside them. It hurt, but he sought the pain out. He held onto it like he wanted to look at it and understand exactly what it was. What would life have been like, Jake wondered, if on that day so long ago, instead of closing the door in his face, his sister had offered to drive him to detox? He felt sure that he would have gone. The truth was that Molly was the first . . . but, no. He would not think of Molly.
The day that everything changed, the session started out like all the others. People chatted together and then quieted down when the therapist began the session. Jake noticed a young couple that he vaguely remembered having seen around before. The girl looked young, like a cheerleader: painted nails, high heeled shoes, softly curling blond hair that fell down around her shoulders. The boy was gaunt, and seemed too young to be a husband and a father and an addict, all at once. Jake understood that their baby was only a few months old.
Halfway through the session, Jake's focus
had begun to wander. He was looking out the window, picking at the bottom of his shoe. He didn't even know what it was that made the blond-haired girl stand up and start shouting. She rounded on her husband, leaning over him.
“But that's exactly what you're doing!” she screamed, her face just inches from his. “Don't you think you can talk like that! Don't talk about yourself . . . as though what you do doesn't affect us all. Don't you realize? You're a part of us . . . we're supposed to be a family! Everything you do to yourself . . . you're doing it to us, too! Every time you put that needle in your arm, you might as well be putting it into mine!” She held out her arm, smooth and perfect and un-scarred, up under his nose and waved it back and forth. “Or into Chrisse's arm. She's only a baby . . . only three months old. But she's already scarred. Already ruined! By you! By what you've done to us . . . to our family! You don't get to talk like that . . . not anymore . . . like you're deciding what kind of life you want for you! You're choosing for all of us—hurting all of us! You're hurting me. Jesus, Ken! You're hurting that beautiful baby we made together!” And she reached over, and slapped her husband, hard, across the face.
“Jesus,” Jake muttered to himself.
The small room exploded with exclamations and cries.
“Okay, okay. Calm down, everybody. Why don't we take a break here for a minute?” The counselor was breaking it up, and everyone got up and moved to the door. Jake moved with them, walking out to the hallway. He stood in front of a window, looking out but seeing nothing.
“Jesus!” he said to himself again, rubbing his eyes.
For some reason, an image rose in his mind. Crystal clear, as though it was happening in front of him, he imagined the gaunt boy standing over a crib. The tiny, blonde-haired baby was fast asleep. She didn't see her father, or the needle he held in his hand until he was pressing it deep into her vein. The child woke, screaming . . .
“Oh, God,” Jake muttered and started walking blindly. The image was too horrible, too solidly real in his mind. But as soon as that image faded, another took its place. He saw himself with Molly, in their little room. Molly was sleeping. And Jake imagined himself, his face dead and full of malice, leaning over her, holding her arm steady as he plunged a needle deep into her vein . . .
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